The Old Man is Down the Road

Holy shit what a weekend!

Friday:
The Pens went dancing with Lord Stanley. I watched game seven with the wife alone in our basement to avoid all distractions. I’m not sure how many of you watched it, but in the opening sequence they had members of the NBC crew give their versions of the pre-game speeches in the team’s locker rooms. I’m pretty sure if I had been watching the game with Richard Simmons he would have turned to me and said “Wow, this is really fucking gay” and I would have nodded and said “It sure is. Now pass me my next Deal-a-Meal card bitch, and it better say nachos on it.”

NBC’s awful coverage aside, the game delivered three hours of gut-wrenching drama. I paced, I screamed, I pounded on doors, I prayed to the hockey gods, I lost my mind when Talbot lit the lamp twice and I added yet another layer of disgusting sweat to a jersey that hasn’t been washed since mid-February. Finally, when Crosby lifted the cup I sunk back into my couch and basked in the afterglow, like I just banged a super model.

Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.

They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”

Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.

My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.

We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)

We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.

Trapped

Last night Amy and I attended her company’s summer event, Elvis Costello at Wolftrap. I quickly realized two things, Wolftrap has become my second favorite concert venue behind Red Rocks and Elvis Costello was one of the worst shows I’ve seen there.

Because I’m a glass full kind of guy let’s start with Wolftrap. As you walk into the venue from the parking lot you pass a series of tents. One is a restaurant, one is for VIP’s and the others are for private events. Because I am VRP (Very Regular Person) and not a VIP we hit the restaurant tent where her company supplied copious amounts of wine in addition to a ridiculously delicious buffet. I had the pork tenderloin and this mac-n-cheese that I would have made sweet love to all night had Amy’s CEO not been there. Don’t even get me started on the dessert tray, I’m getting half a stalk just thinking about it.

The food and drink is all well and good, but here is why Wolftrap is Matchbox Twenty money. They treat you like a fucking adult! You can bring in any kind of alcohol and you can bring in any kind of food. They have picnic tables all over the place and the venue is set against a backdrop of huge ass trees that would make Bob Ross premature ejaculate. You know, if he were still alive and got over his erectile dysfunction. Ok, I made that E.D. part up, but he just looks like a poster child for Viagara. Sometimes you gotta pop a little blue pill before you can successfully touch little boys. Oh snap! Wow, I’m really pissing all over Bob’s grave today. Sorry Bob!

Now that we’ve established the greatness of the Trap, let’s turn our attention to why Elvis Costello sucked dingle-berry covered donkey balls. First off, I like approximately six EC songs and of those tunes maybe 3 are essentials (Veronica, The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes and Peace, Love & Understanding). So he takes the stage and like most aging performers he has a group of about eight other guys with him, and they launch into a series of tunes that would give Bill Monroe a hard on. I seem to be obsessed with dead guys and their junk today. David Carradine must be in my subconscious. Hey, if a guy likes to wear women’s clothes and hang from a noose in a hotel closet while rubbing one out, who am I to judge.

As Costello is plucking away on his third ditty, I fire up the iPhone and look up his setlist from the night before. Well spank my ass and call me Charlie this fucker is going to play 32 songs and we don’t get to a song I know until the encore. Look, I like a little bluegrass as much as the next guy, but if I want to bluegrass out with my huge ass out I’ll go see Sam Bush or David Grisman. Amy is a much bigger fan of EC than I, but luckily she was getting bitter at his back woods versions of the songs she likes too, so we quickly said our good-byes and made a bee line for the exit after an hour or so.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to throw on the Pens Jersey, goalie equipment and prep the noose in my garage for a little ‘Carradine' tribute before the game 7.